


Until The End

by Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)



Category: GoldenEye (1995) RPF
Genre: A Thousand Words, April Showers Challenge 2011, Reverse Chronological Order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-06-21
Updated: 2004-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-18 18:18:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of their romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until The End

**Author's Note:**

> *g* Promised [here](http://www.livejournal.com/community/pierce_daily/26094.html) to decuple-drabble these pics. Here's the first one, of the picture of him waiting to go on for the Paris premiere, looking all angelic.
> 
>  **A/N:** Inspired by [this pic](http://www.yestereve.com/pierce/picday-093.jpg). Exactly 1000 words.
> 
> With the lights out, it's less dangerous.  
> Here we are now, entertain us.  
> -Nirvana

  
At the last, there are the stagelights. The spotlight shines down bright on the man lighting a single Marlboro Light. It's a hot light, but he doesn't move. Not until his cue. Not until his younger son sticks his head in to tell him it's time.

Then he will walk down the runway that isn't until he reaches center stage that also isn't. The director will feed them their lines and it will be done. They signed the contract days ago. This run through, this dress rehearsal, this only opening night, this is all there is.

There is no more.

  
\--

  
Before the end, there is a reserved table in the Four Seasons Hotel. There are two men having a polite dinner in business suits and matching ties with ninja throwing stars in navy swirling down into the pointed tip that rests above the belt. There are French cuffs hidden beneath sleeves that shouldn't hide them and polished wingtips, one pair black, one pair brown. There is a faint smell of lipstick from a role not quite ended. There is rib steak and sushi, white salmon and white Russian, cloth napkins, and the jingle of ice.

There is also a ring.

  
\--

  
Previously there was a date they didn't call a date, then a second. Drinking, fishing, watching the game. There were beds and waking up to familiar green eyes clouded with hangover and suspicions. There were warm blankets and tea in the morning, and he always left before he was thrown out.

Then a third and a fourth and they couldn't call it 'meeting' anymore, couldn't call it 'friendship'. Not 'coincidence' or 'he was just there' or pure chance mixed with a twist of fate. They couldn't call it everything but what it really was.

But they wouldn't call it love.

\--

  
Before this Bron had tried to match him up, told him dwelling wasn't healthy. Told him to choose. He could have either memory or life. Not both.

But he didn't want to choose. He was tired of the game, tired of not waking up to the perfect grumpiness of a man who has never been a morning person, drink the tea of a man who wouldn't know a lemon if it got him free Blades tickets, wouldn't know bleach from stain removed if his favourite sweater depended on it. He wanted the one man who understood.

And Bron finally delivered.

  
\--

  
Prior to had been the desperation born out of a thousand lonely nights listening to the sound of silence, wanting and yet too stubborn, and he forgot why he was angry, why he had said the things he did, did the things he'd done. He forgot why, in the ugly perfect moment, he had hated with such clear passion and furious precision the one he had loved the most.

He traced the word on his hip on every one of those thousand nights, but he was too busy, he told himself, too busy and to old to say I'm sorry.

\--

  
Because the night it rained on his lover's premiere was the day they fought with black ties and cummerbunds and screamed at each other with unprintable hate, neither one right and neither one wrong.

One cigarette led to the next and each chainsmoked their way through the weekend, not knowing the other mimed them, not caring. One burned pictures, the other cut them, sharp quick marks, straight lines through faces and memories. Programs, ticket stubs, everything that reminded them of the other.

He didn't come over the next day, didn't call to apologize. He decided it was for the best.

\--

  
The week before they fought was dually his birthday and the anniversary of their first shag. They celebrated with Irish whiskey, with English humour, pubhopping and sex. With coffee beans and piercing pricks of teeth on lips, on necks, on hips. Hands in hair, shared bathrobes, towels used as blankets, shared showers and dinner. Blue eyed greeting in the morning and an impromptu pillow fight. A pinch to grow an inch and blowjobs to check if it worked, all weekend, all day, all night.

They might have called it love, but they were too drunk on each other to notice.

  
\--

  
Earlier there had been visits to sets that lasted months and drinking grinning knowing castmates under the table weekend after weekend, bar after bar. Hangovers that had lasted just until a blonde head lifted itself up from a stained pillowcase and asked if they really got as pissed last night as he didn't remember.

There had been notable abuses of Bron's expertise with the brush to rid their star of hickeys and bites, of teeth marks and chewed lips, of his first tattoo. Matching on their hips, front, right, and very visible in black ink that will never fade.

 _Yours_.

  
\--

  
Three years earlier was the first premiere they ever attended together. Days before they had sat on cars and given interviews. They had smiled charmingly at the press, complimented each other behind his back, blushed a little too strongly at a comment that came too close. They brought each other champagne glasses and smiled knowingly. He had rested his head on his costar's shoulder during the showing and they had made a detour to the gent's before the first of the many parties.

Bent over a marble sink, breath condensing on a too-clean mirror, flies undone, and everything was perfect.

\--

  
Before the beginning, there was Sean and Pierce. There were shy smiles in script readings and brushing a little too hard against each other during stunts. There was the time Alec punched James in the nuts and they had to reshoot the scene with Pierce limping and cursing Alec and all his damned progeny. There were on-set jokes and the promise of something more.

There was an April birthday celebrated alone together, shooting pool, feeling up cues and looks that were worth a thousand words, and late night talks and a tumble into bed.

And that's how it all began.  



End file.
